THE  JEW  TO  JESUS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  JEW  TO  JESUS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


FLORENCE  KIPER  FRANK 


NEW  YORK 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,   BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

Several  poems  of  this  volume  date  from  the  sixteen-year- 
old  period;  the  title  poem  was  done  at  nineteen;  at  least 
half  of  the  book  —  including  the  sonnets  —  before  twenty- 
one.  Since  then,  my  poetic  intentions  have  somewhat 
changed.  I  have  attempted,  in  the  selection  and  dele- 
tion, objective  judgment;  if  I  have  failed  it  is  because  this 
first  book  of  poems,  in  going  out  from  me,  takes  so  much 
of  me  with  it. 

F.  K.  F. 
Chicago,  Illinois, 
October,  1915. 


PRINTED   IN    AMERICA 


To  J.  L. 

"You  will  wake,  and  remember, 
and  understand." 


372200 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  JEW  TO  JESUS  3 

APRIL  AFTERNOON  4 

A  GIRL  STRIKE-LEADER  5 

THE  MOVIES  6 
"  CITY  OF  HUGE  BUILDINGS  INTO  WHICH  MEN 

HAVE  POURED  THEIR  SOULS  "  7 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOMEN  8 

SUNDAY  IN  THE  PARK  11 

THE  DOWN-TOWN  STREETS  12 

WINTER  LIGHTS  13 

THE  "L"  EXPRESS  14 

THE  LAKE  15 

"  WE  HAVE  DONE  HIM  TO  DEATH,  YOU  AND  I "  16 

YOU  17 

ON  A  GIRL  SEEN  IN  A  DANCE-HALL  18 

"  O,  I  LOVE  TO  BE  ALIVE  IN  THE  STREETS  "  20 
"O,  WHEN  WILL  GOD  COME  AS  A  MIGHTY 

FLOOD "  21 
SONNET  (WRITTEN  FOR  THE  LINCOLN  DAY 

CELEBRATION  OF  A  CHICAGO  SETTLEMENT)  23 

UNSEEING  24 

THE  ENTR'ACTE  25 

TENNYSON'S  "THE  LOTUS  EATERS"  26 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD  27 

THOREAU  28 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"  THINK  NOT  WE  ARE  DESERTED  "  29 

LOVE  SONNETS  OF  AN  INVALID  30 

DAWN  IN  THE  HILLS  34 

NIGHT-MOOD  38 

AN  INTERPRETIVE  DANCE  40 

THE  MOTHER  42 

MOTHERHOOD  43 

HYMN  44 

A  SONG  FOR  IRELAND  45 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BOY  POET  46 

THE  KISS  47 

HORSEBACK  RIDING  IN  CALIFORNIA  43 

A  SPRINGTIME  HOLIDAY  49 

SONG  50 

AT  EVENING  51 

THE  FRIENDS  52 

A  LITTLE  CHILD  TO  HER  MOTHER  53 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL  TO  HER  FUTURE  LOVER  54 

HYMN  TO  THE  WINGED  NIKE  55 

SONNETS  58 

THE  DOUBT  65 

ON  A  STILL-BORN  CHILD  66 

THE  TIRED  67 

VISION  68 

BLASE  69 

THE  FATHER  70 

TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  GHETTO  71 

"  BECAUSE  MY  OWN  LIFE  FALTERS  HERE  "  73 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WALT  WHITMAN  74 

"  THE  POWER  OF  A  HEALTHY  LIFE  I  SING  "  75 

THE  QUATRAIN  76 

POETRY  77 

AFTERWARDS  78 
"WHAT   HAVE   I   TO    DO   WITH   THE   GHOSTS 

THAT  WALK  BY  MY  SIDE"  79 
PREMONITION  80 
MASTERY  81 
A  JILTED  LOVER  ON  A  LINE  OF  FRANCOIS  VIL- 
LON 82 
TOIL  83 
DEATH  84 
SPEAK  THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  WARRING 

NATIONS  85 

THE  JEWISH  CONSCRIPT  88 

SPRING,    1915  89 


These  poems  first  appeared  in  the  following  magazines: 
The  Century,  The  Forum,  McClure's  Magazine, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  The  International,  Poet- 
Lore,  The  Masses,  The  Poetry  Journal,  The  New  Eng- 
land Magazine,  Photoplay  Magazine,  The  Little  Review, 
Mother  Earth,  The  Liberal  Review,  The  Broadway 
Magazine,  Out  West,  The  Twentieth  Century  Magazine; 
and  in  these  books:  The  Lyric  Year,  Thoughts  in  Verse 
and  Prose,  by  Walter  Bissinger  (privately  printed}  and 
Hymn  Book  of  the  Central  Congregation. 


THE  JEW  TO  JESUS 

OMAN  of  my  own  people,  I  alone 
Among  these  alien  ones  can  know  thy  face, 
I  who  have  felt  the  kinship  of  our  race 
Burn  in  me  as  I  sit  where  they  intone 
Thy  praises, —  those  who,  striving  to  make  known 
A  God  for  sacrifice,  have  missed  the  grace 
Of  thy  sweet  human  meaning  in  its  place, 
Thou  who  art  of  our  blood-bond  and  our  own. 

Are  we  not  sharers  of  thy  Passion?     Yea, 

In  spirit-anguish  closely  by  thy  side 

We  have  drained  the  bitter  cup,  and,  tortured,  felt 

With  thee  the  bruising  of  each  heavy  welt. 

In  every  land  is  our  Gethsemane. 

A  thousand  times  have  we  been  crucified. 


APRIL  AFTERNOON 

THE  wind  drives  keen  as  a  sudden  thought, 
Where  the  headland  swings  sharp  and  free, 
And  the  water  beneath  the  wind  and  the  sun 

Clamors  buoyantly. 
And  life  drives  keen  as  a  sudden  thought, 

Keen  as  the  flashing  sea, 
And  O  but  I  know  it  is  keenly  good 
That  I  and  the  sun  should  be. 


A  GIRL  STRIKE-LEADER 

A  WHITE-FACED,  stubborn  little  thing 
•*  ^-  Whose  years  are  not  quite  twenty  years, 
Eyes  steely  now  and  done  with  tears, 
Mouth  scornful  of  its  suffering  — 

The  young  mouth !  —  body  virginal 
Beneath  the  cheap,  ill-fitting  suit, 
A  bearing  quaintly  resolute, 
A  flowering  hat,  satirical. 

A  soul  that  steps  to  the  sound  of  the  fife 
And  banners  waving  red  to  war, 
Mystical,  knowing  scarce  wherefore  — 
A  Joan  in  a  modern  strife. 


THE  MOVIES 

SHE   knows   a   cheap   release 
From  worry  and  from  pain  — 
The  cowboys  spur  their  horses 
Over  the  unending  plain. 

The  tenement  rooms  are  small; 
Their  walls  press  on  the  brain. 
O,  the  dip  of  the  galloping  horses 
On  the  limitless,  wind-swept  plain! 


"CITY  OF  HUGE  BUILDINGS  INTO  WHICH 
MEN  HAVE  POURED  THEIR  SOULS" 

CITY  of  huge  buildings  into  which  men  have  poured 
their  souls, 
City   of    innumerable   schools   where    little   children    are 

taught  and  cared  for, 
City  of  the  great  University,  discussing  solemn  and  learned 

questions, 
City  of  well-dressed,  beautiful  women,  sleek,  satisfied,  sure 

of  their  clothes  and  of  themselves, — 
And  their  husbands  sleek  and  satisfied  also, — 
I,    a    common    prostitute,    in    the   wan    morning    buying 

cocaine, 
Ask  you  the  meaning  of  it  all. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOMEN 

THIS  is  the  song  of  the  women,  sung  to  the  march- 
ing feet, 
Mothers  and  daughters  of  mothers,  out  in  the  crowded 

street, 
Yea,  and  the  mothers  of  mothers,  white  with  the  passing 

years  — 
This  is  the  chant  of  the  women,  and  wise  is  he  who  hears. 

We  are  not  beggars,  O  lordlings  who  sit  in  the  seats  of 

power, 

Rulers  of  many  millions  and  kings  for  a  little  hour, 
We  are  not  suers  for  favor,  O  you  of  the  wide-spread 

land 
Whom  the  kings  cajole  with  flattery  and  a  ballot  stuffed 

in  the  hand. 

We  do  not  come  with  pleading,  O  masters  who  in  your 

might 
Set  us  our  toil  and  our  measure  —  the  rhythm  of  your 

delight. 
Slave  have  we  been,  and  plaything,  and  mother  to  bear 

you  a  son  — 
But  now  is  the  plaything  a  woman  and  the  toil  of  the 

slave  is  done. 

We  are  proud  and  fearless,  O  brothers,  right  comrades 
of  fearless  men, 

8 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOMEN  g 

And  you  who  are  strong  shall  know  us  the  sweeter  now 

than  then; 
For  only  the  free  and  noble  is  mate  to  the  noble  and 

free, 
And  the  bondwoman's  son  is  unworthy  the  son  of  the 

freeman  to  be. 

We  have  visioned  a  distant  vision  that  has  lured  us  with 

its  gleam, 
And  the  marching  lines  and  the  tramping  feet  are  hot 

on  the  trail  of  a  dream. 
We  have  visioned  a  social  justice  that  shall  know  the  end 

of  might, 
The  poor  and  the  weak  and  the  thwarted  we  have  seen 

in  living  light. 

And  we  cry  to  you,  follow  the  vision,   follow  with  us 

abreast. 

Brothers,  comrades,  lovers,  the  quest  is  a  holy  quest. 
Out  of  the  golden  dawning,  out  of  the  bursting  morn, 
They   are   calling   to   us,    united  —  the   voices   of   them 

unborn. 

This  is  the  song  of  the  women,  sung  to  the  marching  feet, 
Mothers  and  daughters  of  mothers,  out  in  the  crowded 
street, 


io  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOMEN 

Yea,  and  the  mothers  of  mothers,  white  with  the  passing 

years  — 
This  is  the  chant  of  the  women,  and  wise  is  he  who 

hears. 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  PARK 

THE  peanut-eating  throngs  tramp  by 
The  animals  in  the  zoo; 
The  sunlight  blocks  them  into  cubes, 
And  flashes  from  crimson  and  blue. 

They  take  their  pleasures  stolidly; 
Their  souls  are  a  grayish  hue; 
And  yet  —  the  thrill  of  the  patient  crowd 
Shakes  strangely  me  and  you! 


ii 


THE  DOWN-TOWN  STREETS 

OTHE  woods  are  brilliant,  the  woods  are  clean, 
But  I  wouldn't  be  there  today, 
Though  Autumn's  aflame  in  the  arching  trees, 
And  the  wind  is  fresh  and  gay. 

No,  I  wouldn't  be  with  the  painted  trees; 

It  doesn't  suit  my  mood. 
I'd  rather  walk  the  down-town  streets, 

A-thrill  with  my  solitude. 

For  I  am  alone  in  the  down-town  streets, 

I,  in  the  clamor  and  crowd. 
They  surge.     They  break.     They  encompass  me. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  I  could  shout  aloud. 


12 


WINTER  LIGHTS 

TN  dusk  of  winter  nights 

•*•  When  all  the  world  is  gray, 

Suddenly  gleam  the  lights, 

Both  near  and  far  away. 

They  bloom,  they  gleam  so  soft! 

0  the  glad  surprise! 

On  poles  they're  hung  aloft, 
Against  the  deepening  skies. 

Suddenly,  O  my  heart, 
Forgetting  this  will  be, 
Again  the  eager  start, 
The  pleasure  keen  and  free! 

1  think  a  thousand  times 

We  could  see  them  bloom  and  gleam, 
And  each  of  a  thousand  times 
A  new  delight  it  would  seem. 


THE  "L"  EXPRESS 

RACKETY  —  rackety  —  ziz  —  ziz  —  rack, 
The  cars  of  the  Elevated  clack  along  the  track. 
With  a  jerk  and  a  whirr  and  a  devil-may-care, 
Along  we  go  racketing,  up  in  the  air. 

Garbage  in  the  alleys  bursts  its  dirty  cans, 
Flapping  linen  gets  the  dust  a  quick  breeze  fans, 
Slattern  women  gossip  on  a  rickety  stair  — 
Grime  and  ugly  living  and  a  stale  despair! 

Rackety  —  rackety  —  ziz  —  ziz  —  rack, 

The  cars  of  the  Elevated  clack  along  the  track. 

Why  are  we  journeying  and  where  —  where  —  where? 

Hurry,  hurry,  hurry,  we've  no  time  to  care! 


THE  LAKE 

BY  the  side  of  my  city  lies  the  lake,  the  large,  spread- 
ing lake,  myriad-minded. 
It  knows  all  thoughts  and  all  passions  and  has  resolved 

them  and  made  them  one  with  itself  and  its  vastness. 
It  knows  the  shame  of  the  city  and  its  filth;  it  knows  its 

glory,  bright  and  burning  as  a  sunrise. 
It  knows  its  infinite  lassitude  and  its  infinite  effort  —  the 

gray   pall   of   futility   and   the   surge   and   break   of 

the  waves  of  life,  pushing  they  know  not  wherefore. 
The  lake   answers  all   and   answers   nothing,    and   is   as 

eternity  is,   spreading  vast  and  quiet  by  the  shores 

of  conscious  existence. 


"WE  HAVE  DONE  HIM  TO  DEATH, 
YOU  AND  I" 

WE  have  done  him  to  death,  you  and  I  —  this  man 
with  the  bleeding  body. 
Look    at    him,    as    he   lies    there    decently    fixed    on    the 

stretcher ! 

Look  at  his  matted  hair  and  his  mouth  half-open  in  amaze- 
ment. 
(He  forgot  we  would  do  him  to  death,  and  he  is  amazed 

at  the  notion.) 
He's  not  a  romantic  sight  —  a  woman  would  be  more 

romantic. 
A  young  girl's  body  lying  there,  the  crowd  a  month  would 

remember. 
But   this   fellow   we've   done   to   death  — "  Um  —  well ! 

Such  accidents  happen! 
Fell  from  a  building,  did  he?     I  suppose  that  he  lost  his 

footing. 
Ugh,  it's  a  ghastly  sight!     I  wonder,  poor  chap,  if  he's 

married ! 
Last  week,  on  Farlan's  new  building,  a  workman  —  O 

yes,  twenty  stories! 
Ought  to  pay  twelve  per  cent.     Jove,  Farlan's  a  head  on 

his  shoulders ! " 


16 


YOU 

1GO  my  way  complacently, 
As  self-respecting  persons  should. 
You  are  to  me  the  rebel  thought, 
You  are  the  wayward  rebel  mood. 

What  shall  we  share  who  are  separate? 
We  part  —  as  alien  persons  should. 
But  O,  I  have  need  of  the  rebel  thought, 
And  a  wicked  urge  to  the  rebel  mood ! 


ON  A  GIRL  SEEN  IN  A  DANCE-HALL 

A  TEMPLE  dedicate  to  the  dance!  — 
•*^-  Stale  cigarettes  and  five-cent  beer 
On  sloppy  tables!     Now  a  leer 
Lascivious,  there  a  provocative  glance! 
The  air's  so  dense  that  you  can't  breathe, 
And  yet  you  find  it  hard  to  leave. 

For  one  slim  little  dancing  girl 

Has  fired  your  fancy,  as  she  sways, 

Abandoned,  in  the  devious  ways 

Of  the  rhythm's  quick,  voluptuous  whirl  — 

So  gay  she  is,  so  wild  and  free, 

So  mad  with  innocent  ecstasy. 

And  in  a  moment  it's  a  mist, 

The  dirty  lust  and  cheap  delight, 

And  through  the  moon-drenched,  Grecian  night 

Call  "  Evoe!  "  the  mad  lips  kissed 

By  Bacchus  to  the  frenzy  rare 

Of  the  votaries  with  the  vine-draped  hair. 

And  she,  your  priestess  wild  of  joy, 
With  glistening  breast  and  whirling  thigh, 
Shouts  freest  in  her  ecstasy, 
In  her  hymning  of  the  ecstatic  Boy, 
While  like  a  flame  the  throng  burns  through 
Dark  thickets  drenched  with  the  moon  and  the  dew. 
18 


ON  A  GIRL  SEEN  IN  A  DANCE-HALL     19 

Dark  thickets  drenched  with  the  dew  and  — "  Lil, 
Pipe  the  guy  with  his  think-tank  on  the  blink! 
Hey,  mister,  won't  you  have  a  drink? 
I'll  have  one,  too  —  sure!  —  if  you  will." — 
Poor  tawdry  little  priestess  in 
The  temple  of  cheap  beer  and  sin! 


"  O,  I  LOVE  TO  BE  ALIVE  IN  THE 
STREETS" 

I  love  to  be  alive  in  the  streets, 

In  the  streets  of  the  friendly  city! 
Pleasant,  odd  sights  one  meets  — 
Women  flashing  and  pretty, 
Some  undoubtedly  piquant  and  witty. 
It's  fun  to  be  alive  in  the  streets, 
With  the  constant  hum  and  patter 
Of  feet,  and  the  constant  clatter; 
Motors  tearing  by, 
Shop-windows  assaulting  the  eye! 
It's  so  jolly  to  be  in  the  streets 
When  the  air  is  bright  and  keen, 
And  one  is  snug  and  clean, 
Well-fed  and  in  new  clothes! 
Then  one  actually  knows 
That  the  world,  on  the  whole,  is  all  right. 
But  I'd  hate  to  be  hungry  and  white 
In  the  streets  of  the  friendly  city, 
And  have  no  place  for  the  night. 
Yes,  that  would  be  a  pity! 


20 


"  O  WHEN  WILL  GOD  COME  AS  A 
MIGHTY  FLOOD" 

OUT  in  the  blue  of  the  wind  and  sea 
The  gulls  dip  white  and  soar, 
And  the  soul  of  me  is  free,  is  free 

With  the  waves  and  the  winds  of  the  shore. 
Sisters,  sisters,  O  let  me  be! 

I  am  one  with  the  winds  and  the  shore! 

You  would  not  pray  to  the  dipping  wind, 

You  would  not  ask  of  the  sun, 
And  the  tides  do  not  know  of  the  sins  that  are  sinned, 

And  the  crimes  that  men  have  done. 
And  I  am  one  with  the  dipping  wind, 

And  fierce  and  pure  as  the  sun. 

I  am  done  with  your  city's  tenement  streets 

And  the  babies  that  whine  and  die, 
With  your  acrid  smells  and  your  fetid  heats, 

And  the  girls  in  the  night  that  lie 
Wrapped  seared  with  flame  in  their  winding  sheets 

And  pray  that  their  souls  may  die. 

I  am  done  with  your  factories'  crazy  thud, 

Where  the  metal  is  more  than  flesh. 
I  am  done  with  the  knowledge  of  tears  and  blood. 

O  the  winds  of  the  sea  are  fresh, 
21 


22  "  O  WHEN  WILL  GOD  " 

And  the  sunlight  flood  is  a  cleansing  flood 
That  shall  wash  my  soul  afresh. 

O  when  will  God  come  as  a  mighty  flood 
To  wash  the  world  afresh ! 


SONNET 

(Written  for  the  Lincoln  Day  celebration  of  a  Chicago 
Settlement.) 

WHAT  answer  shall  we  make  to  them  that  seek 
The  living  vision  on  a  distant  shore? 
What  word  of  life?     The  nations  at  our  door, 
Believing,  cry,  "America  shall  speak!" 
We  are  the  strong  to  succour  them  the  weak, 
We  are  the  healers  who  shall  health  restore. 
Dear  God!  where  our  own  tides  of  conflict  pour, 
Who  shall  be  heard  above  the  din  and  shriek? 

Who,  brothers?     There  was  one  stood  undismayed 
'Mid  broil  of  battle  and  the  rancorous  strife, 
Searching  with  pitiful  eyes  the  souls  of  men. 
Our  martyr  calls  you,  wants  you!     Now,  as  then, 
The  oppressed  shall  hear  him  and  be  not  afraid; 
And  Lincoln  dead  shall  lead  you  unto  life ! 


UNSEEING 

WE  are  a  people  powerful  and  great. 
We  have  writ  large  across  the  continent 
The  wonder  of  our  working;  we  have  pent 
The  forces  of  the  earth  to  serve  our  state. 
Athrob  we  toil,  conscious  of  driving  fate, 
Upon  our  stern  and  anxious  business  bent. 
Thousands  upon  their  thousand  tasks  intent 
Heap  for  us  gold  with  zeal  insatiate. 

We  are  a  people  powerful  —  and  yet 
Unseen  the  gull  her  seaward  voyage  flies, 
The  morning  grass,  untrod,  lies  fresh  and  wet. 
O  God,  we  are  too  busy  for  Thy  skies! 
Forgive  us  if  the  sunrise  we  forget. 
We  are  a  people  great  in  enterprise. 


24 


THE  ENTR'ACTE 

(Sothern  and  Marlowe  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet") 

THE  act  is  ended  and  the  curtain  drops. 
The  garish  lights  remorselessly  display 
Our  buzzing  friends  of  the  calm  everyday 
Appareled  in  "  the  latest  "  from  the  shops. 
My  neighbor,  blond,  rotund,  his  forehead  mops. 
The  orchestra  some  opening  notes  essay. 
The  usher's  nasal  "  Pictures  of  the  play !  " 
Relentlessly  intones,  abruptly  stops. 

But  on  my  spirit  lies  a  witching  power, 
A  glamour  and  a  glow  of  other  light. 
From  Capulet's  stern  eyes  I  shrink  and  cower, 
Still  leap  I  with  Mercutio  to  the  fight, 
Still  hear  I  in  the  scented  midnight  hour 
The  silver  tones  of  Juliet  thrill  the  night. 


TENNYSON'S  "THE  LOTUS  EATERS" 

THE  dreamy  languor  steals  into  my  brain. 
I  cannot  help  but  let  my  spirit  flow 
In  music,  on  the  golden  stream  and  slow 
Of  liquid,  slipping  verse.     I  loose  the  chain 
Of  the  weary  world,  like  some  pale,  tired  Elaine, 
To  lay  me  on  the  barge  that  warm  winds  blow, 
To  feel  a  mystic  breathing  sweet  and  low, 
That  floats  and  drifts  me  from  our  heavy  pain. 

But  I  have  known  the  cool  of  mountain  tops, 
And  in  my  blood  the  tonic  pulse  and  zest, 
And  still  I  feel  the  calling  of  the  sea  — 
The  passionate,  endless  energy  that  stops 
Only  with  death,  and  with  sublime  unrest 
I  hear  man's  spirit  crying  unto  me. 


26 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

THEY  wrong  him  who  know  only  a  fevered  soul 
Sick  with  the  crude  disorder  of  the  time, 
Complaining  in  melodious,  fretful  rhyme 
—  Since  that  his  heart  is  ill  —  the  earth's  not  whole. 
They  do  him  wrong  who  see  as  ultimate  goal 
Of  that  large  spirit,  a  high,  windless  clime, 
Golden,  remote,  insufferable,  sublime, 
Where  stainless  Peace  meek  bows  her  aureole. 

No,  in  the  struggling  press  and  clamorous  life 

Of  this  difficult  world,  with  brawlers  turbulent, 

"  Good  cheer!  "  he  cried  to  champions  of  the  strife, 

"  Courage !  "  to  those  aghast  with  pale  defeat ; 

Of  the  great  hearts  of  heroes  reverent, 

By  Oxus,  in  the  torrid  London  street. 


27 


THOREAU 

(After  seeing  Walden  Pond.) 

THE  gfeen  things  in  their  growing  felt  his  heart 
As  quick  with  budding  impulse  as  their  own ; 
The  solitude  had  found  a  solitude 
As  wild  and  holy;  the  keen  starlight  saw 
A  gleam  as  keen  and  subtle;  the  high  trees 
Heavenward  reaching,  reached  and  yearned  through  him, 
And  in  his  blood  their  living  sap  was  quick. 
The  candor  of  the  good  brown  earth  he  knew, 
The  wide  simplicity  of  growing  fields, 
The  mystery  and  rapture  of  the  dawn. 
Shimmer  and  depth  of  his  dear  pond  he  held, 
Shimmer  and  liquid  depth,  and  glancing  beams 
Of  sunlight  on  its  surface  —  these  he  knew 
As  in  himself,  this  lover  of  the  woods. 


"THINK  NOT  WE  ARE  DESERTED'1 

THINK  not  we  are  deserted!     One  by  one 
The  gods  must  leave  as  they  have  Iqft  of  yore. 
Pan  pipes  no  longer  on  the  golden  shore, 
And  Buddha  of  the  wistful  eyes  is  gone. 
Isis,  Osiris,  their  high  task  is  done. 
Thunders  cloud-girt  Mount  Sinai  nevermore. 
Yea,  he  must  pass  at  whose  name  we  adore, — 
Even  the  gentle  Mary's  wounded  son. 

Yet  are  we  not  forsaken,  nor  can  be. 
The  vibrant  heart  of  worlds  will  never  tire. 
Still  speaks  He  in  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 
Still  kindles  He  the  urge  of  man's  desire. 
Broods  o'er  the  world  the  eternal  mystery. 
Still  is  the  breathing  God  a  living  fire. 


29 


LOVE  SONNETS  OF  AN  INVALID 

(R.  B.  S.— born  1850  — died  1874.) 


IF  I  might  render  him  the  service  small 
That  women  love  —  to  watch  beside  his  bed, 
To  hold  upon  my  heart  his  weary  head, 
To  wait  his  sweet  home-coming  in  the  hall, 
To  be  with  glad  feet  ready  at  his  call, 
Knowing  the  ways  serene  where  he  has  led  — 
O  this  were  sacramental  wine  and  bread, 
The  holy  joy  for  which  we  give  our  all! 

To  bear  him  children  —  at  my  breast  to  feel 
The  little  life  which  is  both  his  and  mine, 
The  tangible  form  of  love  and  final  seal; 
Within  his  eyes  to  see  the  gladness  shine, 
Within  his  heart  to  know  the  soft  warmth  steal  • 
Dear  God!  I  lie  upon  my  bed  supine! 


The  watchword  that  is  taught  us  is  reserve  — 
We  women,  whose  first  thinking  is  to  know 
Hunger  for  loving,  who  are  quick  to  glow 
With  every  tremulous  passion  that  we  serve. 
Still  a  calm  modesty  we  must  preserve. 
Still  on  our  lips  and  bosoms  must  be  snow. 
30 


LOVE  SONNETS  OF  AN  INVALID        31 

The  love  that  leaps  to  speech  we  dare  not  show, 
That  we  be  wooed  and  woo  not,  to  observe. 

But  I  who  needs  must  cry  unsatisfied, 
Whose  desolate  pain  life  has  no  calm  to  still, 
I  who  must  yearn  with  aching  arms  and  wide, 
Dare  I  not  splendidly  my  full  soul  spill, 
Fearless  and  frank,  scorning  my  woman  pride, 
Some  measure  of  my  being  to  fulfill! 


in 

I  am  all  spirit  to  him,  a  sad  soul 
Here  disembodied  even  before  the  grave, 
Renunciant  of  the  joys  that  others  crave, 
My  lips  athirst  for  Death's  sweet,  bitter  bowl; 
And  he  with  priest-like  fervor  would  console, 
With  steady  hand  serene  to  calm  and  save 
The  darkening  heart  that  may  not  be  too  brave 
When  it  shall  reach  the  uttermost  of  dole. 

And  he  to  me  —  O  body  of  me  and  heart !  — 
Is  potency  and  longing  and  desire; 
He  is  that  life  in  which  I  have  no  part, 
The  will  to  be  and  do  that  does  not  tire, 
And  at  the  touch  of  him  there  glow  and  start 
Strange  latencies  and  stir  of  passion's  fire. 


32        LOVE  SONNETS  OF  AN  INVALID 

IV 

For  he  has  touched  me,  spirit  though  I  seem. 
His  hand  lay  on  my  hand  a  moment's  space, 
His  face  a  moment  trembled  toward  my  face, 
So  near  I  dared  not  think,  for  joy  supreme. 
O  God!  there  rolls  between  us  the  dark  stream! 
And  in  my  life,  foreordered,  is  no  place 
For  the  tumultuous  sweet  of  his  embrace, 
Shaking  too  humanly  my  world  of  dream. 

Yet  that  his  touch  should  linger  so  and  burn, 
Should  thrill  me  to  such  knowledge  wild  and  sweet, 
Drawing  my  life  as  waters  moonward  yearn ! 
O  love  of  mine,  if  only  it  were  meet 
That,  radiant  and  gracious,  I  should  turn 
To  cast  my  being's  fullness  at  your  feet! 


Yet  I  need  not  the  actual  touch  or  word. 

I  catch,  within  the  silence,  messages 

More  pregnant  with  love's  wonderment  of  bliss 

Than  any  that  the  bodily  touch  has  stirred. 

Deeper  than  sinks  thy  voice  is  the  sound  heard 

Within  my  soul's  own  vivid  silences, 

And  though  I  have  not  felt  thy  yearning  kiss, 

There  glorifies  me  the  rich  grace  inferred. 


LOVE  SONNETS  OF  AN  INVALID        33 

And  so  I  feel,  when  thou  art  gone,  a  sense 
More  deeply  and  more  intimately  fraught 
With  thy  dear  being's  meaning,  more  intense 
With  wonder  of  thee,  and  the  fear  I  fought 
Is  shadow,  and  the  knowledge,  innocence, — 
And  golden-full  the  miracle  is  wrought! 


VI 

I  must  renounce  it,  then  —  to  touch  your  hand, 
To  look  upon  your  all  too  troubling  face, 
To  feel,  like  scent  of  flowers,  the  subtle  grace 
Of  you  steal  over  me.     I  must  command 
My  soul  that  it  should  steadily  withstand 
The  lure  of  you,  and  your  loved  name  efface 
From  out  my  life  where  I  have  given  it  place, 
As  children  blot  out  letters  on  the  sand. 

And  yet  I  cannot  see  the  sunset  sky, 
I  cannot  joy  at  some  deed  rarely  kind, 
I  cannot  hear  a  child's  heartbroken  cry, 
But  you  are  with  me  in  my  inmost  mind, 
And  with  all  things  I  do,  or  low  or  high, 
Still  you  are  interwoven  and  entwined. 


DAWN  IN  THE  HILLS 

OUT  of  the  vast, 
Flooding  and  flowering  the  cool,  skyey  vast, 
Day,  day  at  last! 

Squandering,  spilling,  pouring  white-flecked  fire, 
Higher  and  higher 

The  light  of  the  sun  mounts  into  the  dim  of  the  sky. 
And  all  the  little  fields  that  lie 
At   the   foot  of  the   hills  that  hold   them   in   mothering 

tender, 

Sweet  with  translucent,  shimmering  green, 
Lay  themselves  bare  to  the  sun,  and  the  hill-trees  slender, 
Upward  reaching  thin  arms  of  prayer, 
A-shiver  with  ecstasy,  tipped  with  sheen, 
Sway  to  the  quivering  call  of  the  fresh-stirring  air. 

Through  the  night  have  I  waited  Thy  summons,  through 
the  night  have  I  lain 

Racked  with  unutterable,  ancient,  blackening  pain. 

And  the  soul  of  me  touched  not  Thy  presence  nor  felt 
Thee  about  me, 

And  the  soul  of  me,  sick  with  its  hate  and  dismay,  was 
minded  to  rout  Thee, 

Yea,  from  itself  to  tear  Thee,  enduring  without  Thee. 

But  now   I   have   found  Thee  again,   O  my   Comrade, 
again ! 

In  the  light  of  the  morning  and  white  of  the  dawn  I  be- 
hold Thee. 

34 


DAWN  IN  THE  HILLS  35 

See,   with   my   arms   outstretched,    I   enclose   and   enfold 

Thee. 
With  a  shout  that  the  darkness  is  light,  I  enclose  and 

enfold  Thee. 

Now  feed  me  with  life  as  with   rain   is  nourished   the 

flower ! 

Crown  me  with  ecstasy,  drench  me  with  power! 
See,  I  am  bare  to  Thee  as  the  fields  are  bare  to  the  sun. 
Resplendent,  vivid,  ever-living  One, 
This  is  the  moment,  this  the  creative  hour! 
Lo,  I  am  one  with  Thee, 
I  partake,  I  am  washed  anew. 
Out  of  lies  this  is  true, 

Out  of  the  dark  of  lies  and  entangling  hates  this  is  true, 
That  Thou  who  art  ever-living,  out  of  death  shalt  create 

anew. 

What  weakling  spirit  knew  thee  gray  and  old, 

Thou  flaming  one, 

Thou  fructifying  sun, 

Thou  trumpet-call  of  morning  to  the  blood, 

Thou  surge  of  the  earth  flood! 

Youth  of  the  universe  art  Thou,  militant,  bold. 

Naught  to  Thee  is  decay, 

When  the  spirit  rots  in  its  shroud, 


36  DAWN  IN  THE  HILLS 

And  the  horrible  thoughts  of  night  have  way, 
And  life  is  a  noisome  cloud; 
A  noisome  cloud  of  the  fen, 
Dank  with  the  spirit's  decay! 

0  out  of  the  morning  laughest  Thou  then, 
Out  of  the  singing  day. 

Out  of  the  morning  leapest  Thou, 
Laughing  at  fear  and  pain, 
And  the  horrible  thoughts  of  night  give  way, 
And  the  soul  is  created  again. 

The  hills  now  are  flooded  with  light  and  the  trees  rejoice 

With  happy  voice. 

The  smell  of  the  sweet,  green  things  is  in  the  air. 

The  breeze  is  a  prayer. 

And  my  soul,  O  my  Comrade,  my  living  soul  is  a  prayer. 

And  rapture  gives  way  to  peace, 

The  dawning  faints  into  the  day. 

Out  of  night  have  I  found  release, 

Out  of  death,  the  way. 

And  my  heart  is  calm  with  Thee,  my  heart  that  went 

forth  with  a  shout. 

Thou  hast  compassed  me  wholly  about. 
With  the  floods  of  Thy  peace  Thou  hast  compassed  me 

wholly  about. 

1  am  elate  with  power. 


DAWN  IN  THE  HILLS  37 

Past  is  the  creative  hour. 

I  am  calm  for  the  ways  of  men. 

Shall  I  not  proclaim  Thee  then 

To  the  doubting  lives  of  men! 

Out  of  the  dawn  have  I  plucked  Thee. 

I  go  to  the  world  of  men. 


NIGHT-MOOD 

THE  night  presses  close  around. 
The  stars  are  large  above  us,  and  the  ground 
Is  tremulous  beneath  our  feet. 

At  the  edge  of  the  earth  we  stand  and  hear  the  beat 
Of  the  moving  universe,  world  upon  world  in  space, 
World  upon  world  in  the  stretching  dark  of  space. 

O  your  dear  face! 

Your  dear,  familiar,  tender,  human  face, 

Alight  with  love  for  me  as  with  a  guarded  flame! 

The  pull  of  us  toward  each  other!  the  appealing  grace 

Of  the  loved  bodies!     Say  again  my  name! 

Say  it  over  and  over !     We  have  no  other  speech. 

We  stammer  each  to  each 

Meanings  that  break  within  us,  they  are  so  great! 

Meanings  that  break  and  falter  — 

The  winds  are  articulate 

Within  the  summer  night.     The  wind  of  the  world 
Is  on  our  cheeks.     Surely  the  infinite 
Blew  upon  us  and  we  shuddered.     The  fires  of  God 
Are  underneath  us,  and  this  planet's  sod 
Is  as  a  shell.     Where  shall  we  flee  from  God? 
He  presses  too  close  upon  us.     O,  in  all  space 
What  then  shall  shield  me  but  your  bending  face! 
Closer!  closer!     What  are  we?     A  shifting  breeze 

38 


NIGHT-MOOD  39 

That   the   winds   of   the   world   will    gather.     Yes,    and 

these 

Our  souls  are  separate.     O,  as  a  little  breeze 
We   shall    blow    into    the    darkness.     Shelter    me    from 

space. 
The  night  is  too  vast  a  place! 


AN  INTERPRETIVE  DANCE 


'HT^HE  dance  of  the  mating! 


Young  men  and  women  out  of  the  morning  sun- 
light 

Sturdily  advancing,  with  joyous,  proud  motion. 
In   the  background   the  sea,   deep   blue   in   the   morning 

sunlight. 
A   rhythmic  march,   loose-draperied,   the  limbs  free   and 

beautiful. 

A  march  slow,  proud,  they  almost  indifferent  one  to  the 
other. 

Suddenly  they  are  aware! 

The  maidens  equally  with  the  youths.     They  start  and 

listen. 
Through  their  bodies  runs  the  rhythm  of  the  sea  and  the 

tides  of  the  earth  that  break  into  flowers. 
They  are  aware  through  their  bodies.     For  a  moment  they 

stand  poised  and  breathless, 
Antagonistic,   separate.     Then   they  gaze  at  each  other. 

Faster  and  faster!     Strike  the  timbrels!     Throw  flowers! 
Dance  with  earth-spurning  feet,  with   full  throat  flung 

back  in  abandon, 
Dance  with   arms  spread   out   to   the   sun,   with   bosom 

seeking  the  sunlight. 
Dance  with  bending  body,  O  maidens,  with  loose-flying 

hair,  tossing,  retreating! 
40 


AN  INTERPRETIVE  DANCE  41 

Tread  the  earth,  young  men!  Stamp  the  ground  as  a 
bull  stamps  the  meadows! 

Hold  yourselves  straight  and  strong;  dance  the  dance 
of  the  spear  and  the  arrow. 

Dance  the  dance  of  power!  You  are  proud  of  your- 
selves, you  are  masters. 

You  are  proud  of  your  lithe-going  bodies,  you  are  proud 
of  your  cleanness  and  reticence. 

You  are  together  now,  a  youth  with  each  maiden. 

You  have  tempered  your  steps  to  each  other,  you  have 
found  a  new  freedom. 

You  have  found  new  and  intricate  steps,  you  are  de- 
lightful together. 

You  have  thrown  your  wreaths  of  flowers  as  binding 
links,  you  are  less  fierce  in  abandon. 

You  move  more  subtly,  with  a  compelling  grace;  you 
move  with  arms  interlacing. 

You  are  as  lovely  as  the  spring.  The  dance  goes  into 
quietness. 

The  dance  breathes  out  in  a  rhythm  as  haunting  as  the 
first  wind  stealing  under  the  moon  at  sunrise. 


THE  MOTHER 

THEY  have  sought  wild  places, 
And  touched  the  wind-bound  Pole, 
But  I  shall  go  a-venturing 
After  a  soul. 

Nine  long  moons  shall  I  wander, 
And  who  is  there  will  say 
What  fugitives  and  dreams  I  shall  meet 
Upon  the  way. 

Stark  is  the  journey,  unknown; 
Yet  shall  I  traverse  pain, 
For  a  soul  is  a  shy,  bright,  wild  thing, 
And  strange  to  attain. 

I  shall  pluck  it  out  of  eternity. 
O  I  shall  laugh  with  glee! 
And  high  in  my  hand  shall  I  hold  it, 
For  God  to  see. 

God  is  a  bold  Adventurer, 
He  is  making  moons  and  suns, 
And  out  to  the  daring  heart  of  me 
His  laughter  runs. 

Men  have  sought  wild  places, 
And  touched  the  wind-bound  Pole, 
But  I  have  gone  a-venturing 
After  a  soul. 

42 


MOTHERHOOD 

A  HOLY  thing  has  this  day  come  to  pass  — 
Through  pain  and  anguish  have  I  brought  forth  life, 
Flesh  of  my  flesh,  soul  of  my  soul,  a  babe, 
A  tiny,  helpless  being  by  my  side, 
A  heart-beat  dropped  from  me,  a  miracle. 


43 


HYMN 

IN  mists  of  ages  hideth 
The  word  that  once  was  true; 
The  living  God  abideth, 
And  he  is  ever  new. 
The  idols  crack  and  perish, 
The  altars  old  decay; 
The  heart  of  man  must  cherish 
The  God  of  his  today. 

What  though  from  Sinai's  mountain 

No  fiats  forth  are  hurled! 

Like  to  a  pulsing  fountain, 

God's  hope  pervades  the  world. 

No  more  in  voice  of  thunder 

He  crasheth  from  the  skies; 

Yet  know  thy  God  —  O  wonder !  — 

Within  thy  brothers'  eyes. 

His  witnesses  are  many; 
They  are  not  far  to  seek ;  — 
He  giveth  speech  to  any 
Who  in  his  name  would  speak. 
All  are  His  priests  anointed, 
All  are  His  chosen  race, 
To  speak  the  word  appointed 
In  each  and  every  place. 


44 


A  SONG  FOR  IRELAND 

\T  7HY  do  you  call  me  so,  mother,  mother? 
*  *      Why  do  you  call  me  so  over  the  sea  ? 

0  I  am  weary,  my  son,  and  forsaken. 
The  voice  of  my  loneliness  calls  unto  thee. 

Why  are  you  lonely,  mother,  mother? 
Why  are  you  lonely  over  the  sea  ? 
My  beautiful  fields  have  they  taken,  taken, 
They  have  taken  my  beautiful  fields  from  me. 

Why  do  you  want  me,  mother,  mother? 

Why  do  you  want  me  over  the  sea? 

The  sons  of  my  love  must  arise  and  redeem  me. 

1  have  bled  for  them,  they  shall  bleed  for  me. 

See,  I  am  coming,  mother,  mother! 

See,  I  am  coming  over  the  sea ! 

A  precious  and  bitter  boon  will  I  give  thee  — 

The  gift  of  death  for  the  love  of  me. 


45 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  BOY  POET 

OUIETLY  pulsed,  the  friend  of  growing  things, 
Companioned  by  the  loveliness  of  earth 
He  walked  and  was  not  lonely.     The  still  night, 
The  subtle  influence  of  the  wind  and  flowers 
And  star-gleam  and  the  stirring  of  the  Spring, 
The  fall  of  silver  waters  in  the  sun, 
Wrought  in  his  blood  a  quickening  and  a  peace. 
The  mystic  Mother  fed  him  with  her  dews 
And  breathed  upon  him  —  breathed  the  holy  breath 
That  stirs  the  burgeoning  of  the  poet's  soul. 
All  high  thoughts  came  to  minister  —  gentle  love, 
Fair  courtliness  and  the  desire  for  truth. 
We  live  but  dully  through  the  years,  but  he 
With  vivid  heart,  intensely,  his  small  cup 
Of  exquisite  life  poured  forth  and  passed  to  rest. 


THE  KISS 

SHEER  joy  of  youth  and  madness  of  the  moon 
And  all  the  illimitable  longings  of  my  blood 
Leapt  in  me.     I  was  half  mad  with  the  sweet 
Delirious  feel  of  living.     It  was  then 
I  caught  her  eyes  upon  me,  misty  veiled, 
And  unashamed  I  kissed  her  on  the  mouth, 
Holding  my  perfect  moment,  proud  and  glad. 


47 


HORSEBACK  RIDING  IN  CALIFORNIA 

DO  you  remember  how  we  swung 
Around  the  edge  of  the  mountain  path, 
Where  over  us  the  gray  rocks  hung, 
Above  us  screamed  the  eagle's  wrath? 
O  the  world  was  young  and  the  world  was  young, 
And  we  bathed  and  dipped  in  the  sun's  gold  bath. 

The  little  stones  sped  'neath  their  flying  feet, 

You  on  Lady  and  I  on  Jack, 

And  the  beat  of  their  hoofs  was  our  own  hearts'  beat, 

As  they  thundered  up  the  mountain  track. 

O  the  world  was  sweet  and  the  world  was  sweet, 

And  could  there  be  ever  of  joy  a  lack! 

Your  lips  were  parted  in  sheer  delight, 

And  the  color  laughed  in  your  luring  face, 

And  your  hair  that  held  the  rich  dusks  of  night 

Floated  and  gleamed  in  the  sun's  gold  grace. 

O  the  world  swung  right  and  the  world  swung  right, 

And  my  heart  kept  pace  with  your  heart's  swift  pace. 

Then,  as  a  sudden  curve  we  turned, 

Flashed  before  us  the  flaming  sea! 

Gold  and  silver  and  blue  it  burned, 

And  the  beat  of  its  waves  was  our  own  hearts'  glee, 

And  all  in  a  moment  life's  best  we  learned  — 

All  that  is  and  that  is  to  be. 

48 


A  SPRINGTIME  HOLIDAY 

OTHE  grass  is  sunlit  emerald,  the  sky  is  blue  and 
*        pearl, 
There's  a  beat  within  a  man's  blood,  a  quick  breathing  in 

a  girl. 
Now  the  flowers  are  sweetly  stirring  where  the  sun  and 

earth-sod  lay, 

For   the   earth   is   quick   with   loving   for   a    Springtime 
holiday. 

There's  a  joy  within  the  treetops  that  have  startled  into 

green, 
And   the  leaves  are  rocking  riotous,   with   bits   of   blue 

between. 
O,  the  road  is  white,  and  vocal  with  "Away!     Away! 

Away!" 
And   my  heart  has  run   to  meet  you   for   a   Springtime 

holiday. 

At  the  edge  of  dewy  woodlands  drop  the  petals  fast  and 

white. 
Love,  now  for  a  moment  love  me!  while  your  eyes  are 

tender  bright! 
Do  light  loves  with  summer  wither?     Well,  so  die  the 

flowers  of  May. 
And  my  heart  is  good  for  loving  for  a  Springtime  holiday. 


49 


SONG 

HALF  the  stars  are  dim  with  weeping, 
Antoinette. 
See  the  moon  how  palely  sleeping, 

Antoinette. 

Faint  and  far  the  heifer's  lowing, 
Faint  the  night  wind  coolly  blowing, 
Dim  and  cool  the  river  flowing, 
Antoinette !     Antoinette ! 

All  my  heart  is  faint  and  lonely, 

Antoinette ! 
Still  it  yearns  "  I  need  thee  only, 

Antoinette." 

As  the  wind  yearns  toward  the  river, 
Setting  its  deep  heart  aquiver, 
Yearns  toward  thee  my  life  forever, 

Antoinette !     Antoinette ! 


AT  EVENING 

A  MAN  goes  forth  in  the  morning  light, 
The  troubled  ways  of  the  world  to  roam. 
A  little  boy  returns  at  night, 
Home  to  my  heart  which  is  his  home. 
His  head  is  sweet  upon  my  breast, 
And  on  his  eyelids  there  is  rest. 

They  thought  him  very  big  and  strong 

As  he  battled  in  the  city's  din 

And  earned  us  a  living  all  day  long. 

O  boy  of  mine,  my  boy  within 

My  arms,  my  baby  on  my  breast, 

Rest  now,  my  tired  man-child,  rest! 


THE  FRIENDS 

"  Thy  voice  is  like  to  music  heard  ere  birth  .  .  . 
Thy  face  remembered  is  from  other  worlds." 

NOT  as  two  lovers  did  we  wander  close 
In  ancient  Babylon,  to  drink  the  dim 
And  mystic  wine  of  evening  —  yet  we  two 
Have  been  together  —  girls,  I  think,  as  now. 
Did  we  not  sit  at  Dido's  feet  and  watch 
The  queen's  face  tremble  toward  ^Eneas?  .  .  .  White 
And  pitiful  you  grew  —  I  see  it  yet !  — 
When  the  two  deathless  lovers  lay  asleep, 
Paola  and  Francesca,  pale  in  death. 
You  gripped  my  hand  and  looked  into  my  face. 
I  see  again  your  wild,  sweet,  piteous  eyes!  .  .  . 
Dear  heart,  do  you  remember  how  we  plucked 
The  white  may-blossom,  and  ran  laughing  by, 
When  Shakespeare  called  us  in  the  village  street?  .  .  . 
Tired  we  were  and  sad,  at  close  of  day, 
When  we  were  driven  homeward  from  the  fields, 
Two  slaves  in  green  Kentucky.     How  you  drooped, 
And  had  not  strength  to  lift  your  basket's  weight! 
I  loved  you  then  with  a  fierce  bitterness. 
I  love  you  now  not  for  yourself  alone 
That  moves  and  breathes  beside  me,  but  for  those 
Far  other  selves  that  walked  with  me  as  friend. 


A  LITTLE  CHILD  TO  HER  MOTHER 

DEAR  mother  mine,  how  tenderly 
Thy  quiet  gray  eyes  look  on  me  — 
How  quietly  and  tenderly! 

0  mother  mine,  a  little  mouse 
Am  I,  and  this  our  little  house, 
And  thou  the  mother  of  the  mouse. 

Sweet  mother,  now  a  little  bird 

1  am,  with  tiny  wings  unstirred, 
A  little  cooing,  nestling  bird. 

Dear  mother,  God  is  far  away, 
And  though  I  look  for  him  all  day 
I  cannot  see  so  far  away. 

But,  mother  dearest,  thou  art  near; 
A  very  heaven  on  earth  is  here 
When  thou  art  loving  and  so  near. 

Perhaps  for  little  girls  like  me 

God  meant  that's  what  their  heaven  should  be 

For  tiny  little  girls  like  me. 


53 


THE  YOUNG  GIRL  TO  HER  FUTURE  LOVER 

I   CANNOT  tell  if  I  have  seen  his  face 
Among  the  crowd,  or  if  some  alien  place 
Hold  him,  until  his  hand  shall  meet  my  own. 
And  yet  I  never  now  am  quite  alone; 
But  in  all  things  his  presence  touches  me. 
I  feel  him  in  the  beating  of  the  sea, 
The  little  rippling  shadows  are  his  smile, 
His  is  the  tenderness  in  Spring's  sweet  wile, 
The  growing  grass  with  joy  of  him  is  fraught, 
The  breeze  upon  my  face  is  his  heart's  thought. 


HYMN  TO  THE  WINGED  NIKE 


AN  earth-bound  priestess,  hampered  and  secure, 
I  scarcely  dare  approach  thee,  sovereign  form, 
I  scarcely  dare  essay  the  eager  joy 
Of  movement  and  of  fire  that  is  thy  heart. 

Yet  know 

There  lives  in  me  the  glow, 
The  restless  glow  and  bright  of  thy  desire  — 
Pulsating,  winged  heart  of  joy  and  fire. 

I  too  aspire 

As  thou,  O  goddess;  I  too  feel  the  urge 
Of  passions  and  of  utterances  high 
That  break  through  to  the  infinite  and  cry 
Against  the  clouds  their  pulsing  movements  vast; 
My  soul  has  wings  like  thine; 
And  those  full  limbs  that  flaunt 
The  fluttering  drapery, 
And  that  deep  bosom  free, 

Are  mine,  are  mine! 


What  quickeneth  the  urge 

Within  thee?     Dost  thou  feel  the  sweep  and  surge 
Of  the  vast  flowing  of  illimitable  life, 
Life  beyond  life,  and  striving  beyond  strife? 
Ah,  from  what  amplitude  of  powers  emerge 
55 


56         HYMN  TO  THE  WINGED  NIKE 

That  sovereignty  and  strength  that  thrill  through  thee, 

Thou  vivid,  burning  song  of  victory! 

Large  freedom's  high  imagination  thou, 

Sweeping  the  cleaved  air  with  haughty  stroke, 

As  if  thy  great  life  broke 

Free  from  our  prisoning  cells  that  bruise  and  bow. 

The  poet  thou, 

The  poet's  soul  all  vivid  things  above, 
More  vivid  and  more  vital  in  its  love 
Than  love  of  woman  who  has  waked  to  love. 
Triumph  of  passionate  justice  and  its  might, 
Triumph  of  soul  and  its  august  decrees, 

Triumph  of  right! 
Ah,  what  vast  things  to  be  are  in  thy  sight! 


Art  thou  indeed  the  Godhead,  molded  strong 
In  the  calm  marble,  which  must  needs  be  white 
Because  it  focuses  all  shades  of  light  — 
The  crimson  passion,  and  the  yearning  hue 

Of  the  pale,  spiritual  blue! 

Dost  all  to  thee  belong  — 
Emotion  and  emotion  strong  or  weak? 

All  powers  and  shades  of  song?  — 

Ah,  couldst  thou  speak! 
Speak  to  me,  bend  above  me,  touch  my  lips, 


HYMN  TO  THE  WINGED  NIKE          57 

Anoint  me  with  thy  presence,  consecrate 

My  soul  unto  thy  state, 
And  I  shall  burst  into  such  power  of  words 
As  men  have  waited  for  with  eager  hearts 
Since  last  the  gods  walked  big  among  us. 

4 

No, 

It  may  not  be! 

I  may  not  see  thee  naked-free  and  pure, — 
An  earth-bound  priestess,  hampered  and  secure. 

'Tis  but  for  me  to  see 

The  splendor  keen  that  darts 

From  out  thy  garment  folds. 
Some  touch  upon  my  hand  I  know,  some  far 

Faint  rustle  of  thy  gown; 

And  yet  my  quick  heart  holds 
Its  yearning,  aching,  passionate  dream  of  thee. 


SONNETS 

DOES  not  great  love  with  some  rich  grace  endow 
The  creature  loved  thus  fully  and  aright, 
Does  it  not  circle  him  in  living  light 
And  lend  an  added  splendor  to  his  brow, 
So  that  among  the  crowd  men  marvel  how 
He  grew  to  be  thus  luminously  bright, 
Aware  themselves  of  blessing  from  the  sight 
Ere  they  pass  on?  —  So  thou,  beloved,  thou 
Surely  some  bright  and  visible  sign  must  bear 
Of  that  full  love  with  which  I  circle  thee, 
All  that  for  thy  sake  I  would  be  and  dare 
Some  record  in  thine  eyes  the  throng  should  see. 
O  surely  those  thou  passest  are  aware 
That  I  have  spent  my  spirit  splendidly! 


58 


SONNETS  59 

I  would  not  love  thee  only  as  thou  art, 

In  conscious  strength  of  man's  maturity, 

Nor  even  as  in  the  future  thou  wilt  be 

When  we  shall  grow  together,  heart  to  heart. 

But  in  the  past,  too,  would  I  have  my  part, 

That  in  my  eyes,  love-tender,  thou  shouldst  see 

The  shy  and  hidden  hours  of  memory, 

The  joy  of  boyhood  and  its  bitter  smart. 

Yes,  I  would  reach  back  in  the  unknown  years, 

My  love  with  fuller  meaning  to  endow. 

My  yearning  arms  would  still  thy  childish  fears; 

With  lips  on  which  thy  passion  pressed  its  vow, 

Dim-seeing  through  the  warm,  sweet  rush  of  tears 

Thy  mother's  kiss  I'd  place  upon  thy  brow. 


60  SONNETS 

The  glistening  shore,  frost-whitened,  knows  no  sound, 
The  moon  her  pouring  radiance  downward  flings 
Like  silver  bounty  spilled  for  heavenly  kings. 
In  living  light  the  sky  and  sea  are  drowned. 
An  awe  more  still  than  silence  holds  us  round. 
No  ease  of  speech  the  enfolding  moment  brings 
Our  two  hearts  pregnant  with  unuttered  things, 
Twin  souls  by  knowledge  and  by  mystery  bound. 

So  deep  a  wonder  broods  upon  the  sea, 

So  vivid  is  the  universe  with  power, 

I  fear  'twill  rend  our  little  lives  apart. 

I  faint  with  nearness  of  eternity. 

My  soul  too  conscious  grows  in  this  white  hour. 

O  love,  the  finite  shelter  of  your  heart! 


SONNETS  61 

Some  say  they  glimpse  belief,  are  trustful,  nay 

Have  certainty,  that  this  is  not  the  whole, 

That  we  but  grope  here  toward  some  unseen  goal 

Whose  splendors  mock  the  glory  of  our  day. 

I  do  not  know;  God  has  been  far  away 

When  I  have  prayed;  and  only  my  own  soul 

Answered  unto  my  unbelieving  soul, 

"  I  do  not  know;  I  doubt;  I  dare  not  say." 

But  thou  —  wilt  thou  be  silent !     I  demand 

An  answer!     I  am  blind  but  thou  canst  see. 

I  am  dark,  but  now  thou  at  last  canst  understand. 

Thou  must  share  with  me,  dost  thou  hear !  —  thou  must 

surely  share. 

See,  when  I  lift  my  twisted  hands  in  prayer, 
It  is  to  thee  I  pray  —  to  thee,  to  thee ! 


62  SONNETS 

0  dear  dead  soul,  I  glory  thou  art  free 
From  fevers  and  from  poisons  of  our  slime, 
From  wounds  of  circumstance  and  hurts  of  time, 
And  all  the  bonds  that  hold  my  life  in  fee. 

1  joy  to  know  thee  in  serenity, 

The  golden  splendor  of  an  ampler  clime, 
To  know  thy  spirit's  striving  rounds  sublime 
Into  the  full  orb  of  eternity. 

My  soul  finds  refuge  in  this  single  thought  — 
Yes,  in  the  fever  and  the  stress  and  pain  — 
That  thou  art  safe,  untouched,  and  all  aloof 
From  worldling's  malice  and  the  fool's  reproof, 
That  my  most  bitter  loss  is  thy  sweet  gain, 
Though  thy  deliverance  is  with  anguish  bought. 


SONNETS  63 

Often  when  life  about  me  flushes  red, 

When  youth  is  noisy  with  glad  rioting, 

When  love  and  light  and  laughter  have  their  fling, 

Softly  I  muse,  "  How  fares  it  with  the  dead ! 

Have  they  pale  comfort  in  their  narrow  bed? 

Lie  they  too  still  to  stir  at  call  of  Spring? 

Or  do  their  spirits  still  rejoice  in  sting 

Of  high  endeavour  urging  heart  and  head  ?  " 

But  this  I  know:     If  action  be  the  law, 
If  the  good  warfare  wages  there  as  now, 
If  strife  and  clamor  be  on  battlefield, 
Then  are  you  there,  a  sword,  a  flame,  a  shield, 
A  perfect  knight,  unsullied,  without  flaw, 
With  high  resolve  still  glowing  on  your  brow. 


64  SONNETS 

Often  within  the  house  where  we  have  met 
You  are  an  aching  presence  and  a  pain, 
The  cruel  obsession  of  a  tortured  brain 
With  only  you  and  loss  of  you  beset. 
Each  room  where  you  have  moved  is  a  regret. 
In  every  spot  some  self  of  you  is  slain. 
And  "  O,"  I  question,  "  must  he  die  again, 
And  die  a  thousand  times  till  I  forget!  " 

But  when  I  plunge  into  the  moving  street, 

Into  the  vital  sunlight  and  keen  air, 

When  face  to  face  and  life  to  life  I  meet 

My  living  brothers,  all  the  old  despair 

Falls  from  me;  in  the  faces  that  I  greet 

And  in  the  quickened  heart-throbs,  you  are  there. 


THE  DOUBT 

THE  mortal  pang,  the  gasping  breath 
A  moment  to  endure, 
And  then  to  meet  with  you  in  death  — 
If  only  I  were  sure! 

But  O  the  unknown  way  to  choose, 

And  after  find  it  true 
That  I  in  outer  dark  must  lose 

The  memory  of  you! 


ON  A  STILL-BORN  CHILD 

I  HAD  a  little  sister  once  who  died 
Ere  she  was  born.     She  was  brought  forth  in  peace 
Even  before  the  bruising  of  the  world 
Had  come  upon  her,  so  that  she  might  know 
What  peace  is.     A  white  silence  wrapped  her  soul, 
That  had  not  stirred  nor  known  any  thought, 
That  had  not  yearned  into  the  light  and  sun, 
The  little  soul  as  still  and  white  as  death. 
She  had  not  felt  a  glimmering  of  desire. 
Life  was  a  silence  to  her  and  as  naught. 
Or  was  it  that  the  little,  timid  heart, 
Fluttering  between  existence  and  the  void, 
Shrank  back  afraid  from  feeling  and  from  life, 
—  So  little  and  so  timid  and  so  white!  — 
We  stretched  warm  hands  of  love  in  welcome  forth, 
But  she  —  she  saw  beyond  us  and  around, 
The  huge,  remorseless,  thunder-crashing  world, 
And  knew  that  though  we  yearned  to  shelter  her 
We  could  not,  and  although  our  love  was  warm 
And  tender,  we  were  frail  almost  as  she. 


66 


THE  TIRED 

OUIET  dead,  whom  others  weep, 
We  have  envy  of  thy  sleep. 
Dead  in  us  is  being's  zest; 
Easy  would  it  be  to  rest. 
Stooped  so  low  are  we  by  toil 
We  are  near  the  friendly  soil. 
Quiet  dead,  do  seeds  of  Spring 
Ever  stir  thy  slumbering? 
Does  the  push  of  life  anew 
Wake  in  thee  its  yearnings  too? 
We  would  lie  too  deep  and  still 
Even  to  know  the  sentient  thrill. 
We  would  lie  too  still  and  deep 
Ever  to  waken  from  our  sleep. 
Surely  in  the  depths  of  earth 
There  is  resting  from  rebirth. 
Surely  somewhere  there  is  peace, 
Where  the  tides  of  being  cease. 
Many  have  with  life  been  blest; 
Lord,  Thy  weary  ask  Thee  rest. 


VISION 

THEY  push  and  they  crowd  me, 
Invisible  ghosts, 
The  vast  concourse  of  spirits, 
The  hosts  of  the  dead, 
Till,  I,  too,  am  lost 
In  the  whirl  and  the  fleeing, 
Am  swept  and  submerged 
In  the  hurrying  number. 
Now  at  my  right, 
But  a  moment  past,  Caesar 
Gory  and  crowned ! 
A  wan-cheeked  French  woman, 
A  peasant  I  think, 
Plucks  me  here  at  the  elbow. 
They  push  and  they  crowd  me 
Till  I  too  am  swept 
In  the  swirling  great  number, 
The  whirl  and  the  fleeing. 
Seething  and  swift 
From  the  seething  great  cauldron 
Lit  by  the  fire 
That  never  shall  smolder, 
That  never  shall  perish, 
The  multitudes  pour  — 
Invisible  ghosts, 
The  vast  concourse  of  spirits, 
The  hosts  of  the  dead. 


BLASE 

f  SIT  and  watch  the  heated  crowd, 
•*•     The  men  that  come,  the  men  that  go, 
Their  wrangling  voices  lifted  loud  — 
It  interests  me,  the  curious  show. 

The  seasons  pass,  the  day,  the  night  — 
I  joy  not  overmuch  nor  grieve. 
The  glad  and  anguished  pass  my  sight, 
And  they  shall  leave  as  I  shall  leave. 

This  man  lifts  eager  hands  to  life, 
That  one  with  yearning  sees  the  sod. 
Impartial  do  I  view  the  strife, 
As  calm  and  as  amused  as  God. 


69 


THE  FATHER 

OUT  of  the  measureless  infinity 
We  have  called  into  being,  I  and  she, 
Another  life  to  burn  with  life  as  we. 

A  little  while  ago  and  this  child's  heart 
Was  of  the  darkness  and  the  void  a  part. 
Now  prisons  it  the  vital  gleam  and  dart. 

We  have  called  into  being,  she  and  I, 

A  man-child  dedicate  to  all  things  high  — 

A  breath  blown  like  the  passing  of  a  sigh. 

Quick  with  the  glowing  of  our  quick  desire 
We  have  evoked  a  living  heart  of  fire  — 
A  wind-stirred  flame  to  flicker  and  expire. 

0  Lord  of  heaven  and  of  our  compassed  earth, 
Before  Thy  mystery  of  human  birth 

1  feel  my  slightness  and  my  little  worth. 

Yea,  in  my  heart  knowing  the  multitude 
Of  warring  passions,  dare  I  name  it  good 
That  Thou  hast  called  me  unto  fatherhood ! 


TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  GHETTO 

(From  the  Yiddish  of  Morris  Rosenfeld.) 

i 
THE  MILLIONAIRE  OF  TEARS 

5/  I  VIS  not  a  golden  tuning  fork 

Attunes  my  voice  to  song, 
Nor  at  a  beckon  from  the  stars 

Do  silver  fancies  throng. 
A  child's  sad  whimper  in  the  night, 

A  wearied  worker's  moan, 
O  these  alone  awake  my  heart 

Its  music  to  intone, 
And  with  a  flame  my  song  takes  life 

From  my  poor  brothers'  grief; 
Therefore  I  die  before  my  time, 

With  meager  days  and  brief. 
What  will  they  give  me  as  reward  — 

In  wretchedness  my  peers? 
A  millionaire  of  tears  am  I ; 

With  tears  they  pay  for  tears. 

ii 
WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

If  our  life  is  but  a  sleep 
For  a  few  and  fleeting  years, 


72       TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  GHETTO 

Must  my  aching  eyelids  keep 
Only  wearied  dreams  of  tears? 

If  our  life  is  but  a  feast, 

We  the  guests  about  the  board, 

May  I  never  taste  at  least 

Some  sweet  morsel  of  the  hoard? 

If  the  world  a  garden  is, 
Where  all  roses  bloom  and  blow, 
Must  I,  yearning  for  their  bliss, 
Ever  ecstasy  forego? 

If  the  world  is  but  a  strife, 
Clashing  sword  and  blood  that  drips, 
Then  I  too  can  give  my  life 
With  a  laugh  upon  my  lips. 


"BECAUSE  MY  OWN  LIFE  FALTERS  HERE" 

BECAUSE  my  own  life  falters  here, 
Because  my  own  soul  burdened  is, 
I  do  not  make  demand  of  Fate 
For  the  eternal  mysteries. 

Because  I  am  flung  twisted  forth, 
Because  in  the  making  I  was  marred, 
I  do  not  doubt  the  purpose  deep 
Behind  the  heavens  calmly  starred. 

Life  justifies  in  vivid  ways 
The  heart  that  sees  her  great  and  sane; 
Strong  joy  of  being  have  I  snatched 
From  out  the  fiery  midst  of  pain. 


WALT  WHITMAN 

THIS  is  the  lover  of  Nature  —  the  man  with  the 
hardy  body, 

Who  trudges  along  rough  roads,  who  sleeps  in  the  woods 
and  the  open, 

Whom  Nature  claims  as  her  own,  as  one  with  her  rough- 
ness and  wildness. 

Not  the  effeminate  poet,  the  delicate  treader  of  flowers, 

Playing  his  lute  in  pale  moonlight,  afraid  of  the  sun  and 
the  north  wind, 

Singing  only  of  love  and  never  of  shock  and  of  hardship. 


74 


"  THE  POWER  OF  A  HEALTHY  LIFE  I  SING  " 


A 


THE  power  of  a  healthy  life  I  sing, 
I  sing  the  joy  of  cleanliness  and  strength, 
And  all  free,  simple  things  —  the  light,  the  air, 
Nourishing  food,  and  country  smells  and  sounds, 
The  quickening  wind  of  dawn,  long,  quiet  walks, 
The  liberal,  cheering  sunlight,  gift  of  gifts, 
The  cool,  delicious,  silvery  slip  and  splash 
Of  water  on  the  body,  untired  nerves, 
The  clear  eye  and  the  beauty  of  the  form  — 
I  sing  the  well-poised  man  with  splendid  health ! 


75 


THE  QUATRAIN 

COMPACT  of  meaning  in  a  little  space, 
Do  not  the  quatrain  for  its  length  decry. 
There  speaks  not  through  the  body's  strength  and 

grace 
That  message  read  within  the  flashing  eye. 


76 


POETRY 

MY  tremulous  soul  awaits  the  god's  reception. 
Surges  the  infinite  through  my  finite  brain. 
The  poem !  —  lo,  immaculate  conception !  — 
Born  of  divinity  and  human  pain. 


77 


AFTERWARDS 

THIS  soul  that  ponders  death 
Will  go  as  all  souls  go, 
With  ceasing  of  the  breath, 
I  wonder  —  will  it  know! 


"  WHAT  HAVE  I  TO  DO  WITH  THE  GHOSTS 
THAT  WALK  BY  MY  SIDE" 

WHAT  have  I  to  do  with  the  ghosts  that  walk  by  my 
side, 

Work  with  me,  eat  with  me,  tell  me  of  that  or  this, 
When  one  whom  they  say  is  dead,  questions  me,  vivid- 
eyed, 

Burns  on  my  brow,  on  my  lips,  his  yearning,  importunate 
kiss. 


79 


PREMONITION 


YOU  thought  it  was  your  baby's  smile  and  look 
Called  forth  the  mystic  flash  my  glad  eyes  took. 
Ah,  'twas  my  children  that  are  yet  unborn 
Who  so  the  deepest  being  of  me  shook. 


M4STERY 

DO  not  entreat  Life,  but  command ! 
She  bullies  those  that  beg  her  grace. 
But  take  you  once  the  master's  stand, 
And  she  assumes  the  servant's  place. 


81 


A  JILTED  LOVER  ON  A  LINE  OF  FRANCOIS 
VILLON 

O  VILLON,  if  I  had  your  knack 
Of  lines  that  breathe  the  amorous  South, 
My  kisses  it  should  never  lack  .  .  . 
"  Her  sweet,  red,  splendid,  kissing  mouth." 


82 


TOIL 

THE  laborer  in  the  noonday  glare 
Curses  the  hand  that  set  him  there. 
The  sick  man  sees  it  truest  heaven 
The  toiling  of  the  world  to  share. 


83 


DEATH 

ULTIMATE  fact  beyond  facts,  forever  waiting  and 
waiting ; 
Mystical  breath  of  the  twilight  of  worlds,  the  brooder  on 

secrets ; 

Mystic  Nirvana,  absolver,  the  yearning,  infinite  silence; 
Thou  the  enfolder  and  answerer,  thou  the  solution,  the 
quiet. 


SPEAK  THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  WARRING 
NATIONS 

By  the  right  of  the  birth-pangs, 
By  the  anguish  at  death, 
They  have  knowledge  of  the  oneness 
Of  those  who  breathe  breath. 
They  say  not  their  vision, 
They  know  not  their  dream, 
They  are  seized  of  prophecy  — 
But  they  fear  to  blaspheme. 
They  speak  the  words  accepted, 
They  urge  to  the  strife; 
They,  bearers  of  the  terrible 
Splendor  of  life! 


P^HE  earth  is  shaken  and  riven 

With  the  tramp  of  the  marching  men, 
From  the  gleaming  sun  to  the  windy  moon 

'Til  the  marching  sun  again. 
And  cry  the  women,  "  With  lust  go  forth, 

Go  terrible  and  proud! 
Crimson  are  the  hearts'  banners, 

And  the  trumpets  call  loud. 

"  The  sons  of  our  bodies,  invincible, 
Keen  males,  hard  for  the  fight  — 

Go  forth  with  the  glory  of  a  conquering  race, 
Go  in  the  splendor  of  might." 
85 


86     WOMEN  OF  THE  WARRING  NATIONS 

And  smile  the  women,  "  Now  stifle  we 

The  leaping  fear  that  cries. 
See,  our  love  has  become  a  challenge 

In  tearless  eyes. 

"  For  shall  we,  who  are  weak  for  the  battle, 

Do  less  than  suffer  in  scorn! 

With  a  shout  they  will  fall  and  with  bravado  of 
singing, 

The  men-children  we  have  borne." 
And  say  the  women,  "  By  the  pangs  of  birth, 

By  the  weary  months  of  pain, 
We  too  have  been  cleansed  as  with  fire, 

Nor  strengthened  in  vain. 

"  We  have  taught  you  the  glory  of  conquest 

That  with  blood  and  the  flame  is  bought; 
For  we  are  meek  and  loving,"  say  the  women, 

"  And  we  teach  you  what  we  have  been  taught." 
And  speak  the  women,  "  We  are  happy, 

While  you  sit  in  the  councils  of  state, 
To  do  the  deeds  of  your  bidding, 

And  name  it  our  fate. 

"  You  shall  show  the  nations  your  glory, 
The  tribes  you  have  mightily  won. 


WOMEN  OF  THE  WARRING  NATIONS     87 

You  shall  wax  great  in  art  and  in  trading; 

You  shall  exult  in  the  sun," 
Exclaim  the  women,  "  They  shall  bow  to  your  glory, 

They  shall  make  you  tribute  of  land, 
For  you  are  altogether  wise,"  cry  the  women, 

"  And  destined  to  command. 

"  He  shall  go  strong  and  terrible, 

A  banner  over  the  host, 
His  name  have  we  told  you  from  the  beginning  — 

God!     Him  shall  you  reverence  most," 
Speak  they,  "  for  He  is  unconquerable, 

And  He  shall  nourish  the  strong; 
He  has  pledged  that  the  earth  and  its  peoples 

To  you  shall  belong." 

The  earth  is  shaken  and  riven 

With  the  tramp  of  the  marching  men, 
From  the  gleaming  sun  to  the  windy  moon 

'Til  the  marching  sun  again. 
And  cry  the  women,  "  With  lust  go  forth, 

Go  terrible  and  proud! 
Crimson  are  the  hearts'  banners, 

And  the  trumpets  call  loud." 


THE  JEWISH  CONSCRIPT 

There  are  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  million  Jews 
in  the  Czar's  array  alone. —  Newspaper  clipping. 

'  I  %HEY  have  dressed  me  up  in  a  soldier's  dress, 

With  a  rifle  in  my  hand, 
And  have  sent  me  bravely  forth  to  shoot 
My  own  in  a  foreign  land. 

Oh,  many  shall  die  for  the  fields  of  their  homes, 

And  many  in  conquest  wild, 
But  I  shall  die  for  the  fatherland 

That  murdered  my  little  child. 

How  many  hundreds  of  years  ago  — 

The  nations  wax  and  cease !  — 
Did  the  God  of  our  fathers  doom  us  to  bear 

The  flaming  message  of  peace! 

We  are  the  mock  and  the  sport  of  time! 

Yet  why  should  I  complain !  — 
For  a  Jew  that  they  hung  on  the  bloody  cross, 

He  also  died  in  vain. 


88 


SPRING,  i <?i  5 

THE  dreaming  earth  is  choked  and  fetid  with 
them !  — 

The  beautiful  bodies  of  boys,  straight-limbed,  sweet- 
fleshed,  lovers,  conquerors  of  life,  boastful  and  pas- 
sionate, 

The  weary  bodies  of  toilers,  clerks  —  civilians  ugly  with 
dusty  living, 

The  bodies  of  red-faced,  sensual  men  and  the  pale  bodies 
of  dreamers, 

All  are  tossed  into  the  fallow  earth  sweet  with  spring, 
breaking  into  blossom  in  the  eternal  renewal  of  the 
seasons. 

O  the  spring  in  the  fertile  meadows! 

O  the  ache  of  spring,  the  zealous  urge  of  renewal! 

O  the  white  moon,  timid  and  tender,  lying  young  in  the 

pale  west  of  the  springtime! 
O  the  odors  e/  spring,  the  swift  rush  of  her  winds  and 

her  waters! 

What  will  you  do  with  them,  fecund  earth  ?  —  what  will 
you  do  with  this  stuff  of  blood  and  of  star-dust? 

How  shall  you  make  over  this  that  was  man,  these  broken 
bodies  strewn  upon  you,  crumbling  and  rotting? 

What  shall  you  use  them  for?  —  noisome  already!  ex- 
crement ! 

89 


90  SPRING,  1915 

Shall  you  turn  them  into  black,  fertile  soil  and  into  the 
dry  dust  of  the  mid-season? 

They  are  nothing! 

The  earth  spawned  them  forth  and  the  earth  has  received 

them. 
And  all  our  dreams  are  nothing  and  all  curious  hopes 

and  all  the  eager  upreaching  of  knowledge, 
The  scheme  of  the  spanner  of  continents  and  the  desire 

of  the  little  husbandman  hoarding  for  his  loved  ones, 
The   invention   of   scientist,    artist,    the   forward-looking 

thoughts  and  the  patient  toiling, 
The  heady  hopes  of  youth  and  the  dogged  hopes  of  the 

middle-aged  and  disillusioned, 
The  anguish  of  the  mother  in  child-birth,  she  travailing 

to  bring  forth  life  in  a  blind  longing! 

The  seed  in  the  earth  has  awakened, 

The  earth  has  conceived  and  the  fruits  thereof  are  glad- 
ness, 

Riotous  forces,  push  of  the  earth-sap,  crowding  on 
crowding, 

Wild  winds  of  spring,  sibilant  winds  of  the  night-time, 

Hints  of  renewal,  change,  rumors  wind-blown  of  des- 
tiny— 

Searches  there  through  chaos  the  irresistible  soul! 


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